Vigilance
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot. Sherlock comes face to face with an old enemy. Little does he know, he won't have to face him alone. [Rated T for violence.]


_**A/N:** I was inspired ages ago by a specific piece of artwork from an incredibly talented tumblr artist. Her username is fionabasta-sherlolly. The artwork featured Sherlock holding up a gun, and Molly with a bullet wound in her chest, with tears down her face. I finally formed a coherent idea and here is the product. I hope you'll enjoy it. I think BAMF!Molly is becoming my new favourite thing to write haha. xx_

* * *

**Vigilance**

"Well, doesn't this feel familiar?" came an utterly sinister but regrettably familiar voice.

Once again, the detective and the madman found themselves facing one another on the rooftop of Bart's, their good old battleground

"I was tempted to pick somewhere different," Moriarty said, swinging the gun in his hand, "But I thought, _nah_. There is no view of the city like the one up here." He paused to chuckle to himself as he let those blank, black eyes of his roam, casually observing the slowly dimming sky. Sherlock was silent, as he stood with his hands by his side but not once forgetting the gun that rested in his right hand.

"So, what now?" the detective asked quietly, lifting his gun.  
"Oh, my, my…" the madman exclaimed with a grin, "No foreplay? I'm disappointed, Sherlock."

Moriarty raised his own gun, poised to shoot at any moment. Sherlock stared into the barrel and felt nothing. It was as though his veins had frozen over. The detective's hand never shook, but calmly and steadily held the gun, ready to silence the madman once and for all.

"You do know that whatever happens this time…" Moriarty whispered icily, "_This time, _you _will _die, Sherlock."  
"And so will you," Sherlock answered coolly. "I don't care if I die. But I care that _you _do."  
"You underestimate me," Moriarty said with a laugh, "You think I'm just a pretty face…"  
"I don't think you're pretty at all," the detective retorted.  
"Oh! Touché…" he remarked, amused.

In a flash, Moriarty stepped forward and struck the detective across the face with the gun in his hand. Sherlock fell to the ground, disoriented from the blow to his temple. Before his vision could come back into focus, Moriarty struck him again with a merciless kick in the face.

"Well, I think _you're_ pretty…" said Moriarty with a smirk, "Not now, though. Your face is…a little dirty."

With one more kick, Moriaty heard a satisfying crunch, possibly from Sherlock's nose or his jawbone cracking.

"Don't worry, it's not like you'll need any of those to work once you're dead…" he said.

Moriarty tilted his head and stared down at the detective by his feet. He smirked at the sight of blood forming little streams down Sherlock's face. Little purple streaks were forming too, from his bruises.

"No, you're not so pretty anymore," Moriarty whispered.

Just then, Moriarty felt something cold against the back of his head. He was surprised that someone had found them. However, nothing surprised him more than the voice that spoke to him.

"Step away from him," came the quiet but stern voice of Molly Hooper. "And drop the gun." It sounded as though her teeth were clenched.

With his arms raised in mock surrender, James Moriarty backed away from Sherlock's body and moved where the gun to his head was nudging him to.

"Molly Hooper? Is that _really_ you?" he asked dramatically.

Before she could answer, he turned swiftly around, grabbing her by the wrists, knocking the gun out of her hand. He was surprised how quickly she relented, letting him grab her and throttle her neck with his arm. Molly smiled to herself as Moriarty held her captive against him. He had restored the gun to his right hand whilst holding her with his left arm. So tight was his hold on her that he could feel every bone in her throat through the flesh in his forearm.

As he held her, Moriarty kept his gun poised at the detective, watching him rise slowly to his feet. Sherlock groaned quietly as he pushed himself up from the ground, his blood dripping little red constellations on the grey, concrete surface. Moriarty rolled his eyes at how pathetically slowly the detective was in standing up.

"Come on, get up, get up!" he exclaimed at the detective, "Look, I've even got a present for you."

Sherlock had no idea what Moriarty was talking about. However, when his vision finally cleared and his head stopped spinning, his eyes widened as quiet shock rang through his body. Sherlock wanted to gasp, but made sure not to. He scrambled for his gun, much to Moriarty's amusement, and held it up to Moriarty.

"Let her go," he stated quietly. "She is not involved."  
"Well, if she invited herself to the party I can't be so rude as to _refuse_ her, can I?" Moriarty replied with a menacing grin.  
"I'll say it again, _let her go_." the detective whispered fiercely.  
"She _is_ an ex-girlfriend, you know," he said, raising an eyebrow, "I've definitely have more say as to whether or not she…"  
"Let. Her. Go." Sherlock said, trying to keep from bellowing at the madman.

Moriarty stood his ground, shrugging his shoulders at the detective.

"She's a very good ex, isn't she?" said Moriarty, "Look at her, still protecting her ex-boyfriend, being his human shield."

Moriarty gave her a little kiss on her temple, inducing a flash of anger in the detective's eyes.

"Maybe we shouldn't have broken up eh, Molly?" he uttered into her ear. "You and I both fancy the man standing before us but really, I think you and I definitely make a better couple…"  
"Enough!" Sherlock exclaimed, "Let her go _now_."  
"Not a chance," Moriarty said, grinning, "Such a reunion has never been so sweet…"

Sherlock was desperate. This was his one chance to finish the madman off. Even if it meant risking his own life, he was going to rid the world of this spider once and for all. However, it was not his life at risk now. It was Molly's.

Molly had not taken her eyes off Sherlock for one moment. She stared calmly at him, waiting for him to look at her, and to look at her _properly_. She could always see right into him, sensing his every thought. This time, however, she was hoping he would see _her_. If there was ever a time to really _look_ at her, she was hoping it was now. Up to this very moment, Molly had not uttered a single word, but inside, she was begging quietly that Sherlock would just _look_ at her.

Despite her best efforts, the internally petrified detective kept his eyes solely fixated on the consulting criminal that now had them both suspended in his web. Molly had no choice, but to speak.

"Sherlock," she said calmly.

At her voice, his gaze moved swiftly to her face. Sherlock was perplexed at how calm it was. He even saw a trace of a smile in her face.

"Molly…" he answered.  
"Shoot us," she said, "Shoot me, then shoot him."

At her words, Moriarty scoffed to himself. They had amused him, however, and so he let the pair continue.

"No," Sherlock answered, frowning and troubled, "No, I will find a way…"  
"Sherlock, listen," she said, ignoring the discomfort of Moriarty's arm against her throat, "_Shoot. Us."_  
_"_No, there has to be a way…"  
"Sherlock!" she exclaimed suddenly, shocking everyone including herself, "Please, shoot us. It's the _only _way."

When Molly saw the puzzlement on his face, and sensed the troubled state of his heart, she dropped her head. In her slight panic, she laughed quietly, as a tear slid down her cheek.

"It's only logical, Sherlock," she whispered, "Come on, Sherlock. Please."

Suddenly, a shot rang out. Smoke seeped out of Moriarty's gun as Sherlock fell to the ground, clutching his left knee in agony.

"Thought I'd give you an incentive," Moriarty said nonchalantly, "She's given you a pretty good solution."  
"Sherlock! Do it!" there was such a desperation in Molly's voice. She did not know, but it quietly clawed at the detective's heart.

Sherlock bit the insides of his mouth to stave the sharp, searing pain through him. Moriarty had blown off his knee cap by sending a bullet straight through it. The detective could not get up. He remained where he was, kneeling, but not without his gun still pointing at Moriarty.

"Do you want another one—" Moriarty clicked his gun and aimed once more.  
"Sherlock, do it" screamed Molly.

With his heart in his mouth, the detective's reflexes obeyed Molly's scream, firing two careless shots. One flew right into Molly's chest and the other, into Moriarty's face. Moriarty's hold on Molly immediately loosened as he fell backwards, collapsing into a growing pool of his own blood. Molly stumbled forward from the sudden released by her captor. She breathed hard and fast, but gathered herself and managed to walk unsteadily to where Sherlock was.

"You did it," she said with a smile. There was a breathlessness in her voice that frightened the detective. For a moment, the terrifying pain in his knee disappeared.

Molly sat herself in front of him and eventually, had to lie down. She stared up at the sky but remained smiling. Her breathing was tired, ragged and she turned to face the detective who was still too shocked to speak. His eyes were wide with horror as he looked down at her, studying the dark and oddly clean hole in her chest. It was a hole that he had put there, a wound he had made.

To his surprise, Molly reached into her pocket and took a mobile phone out. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion when he noticed the phone was not hers. She fumbled with it at first before handing it to him.

"You see that red button behind?" she said.

He turned the phone around and nodded.

"Could you…press it now, please…" she said, shutting her eyes as she tried to take deep breaths.

Sherlock obliged and pressed the red button.

"Have you done it?" she asked, her eyes still shut. She frowned suddenly from a sharp pain that travelled through a shoulder muscle. The impact of a bullet was no laughing matter.  
"Yes," he answered quietly. He watched her squirm slightly, as though adjusting into a more comfortable position.

Sherlock's hand hovered gingerly above her, before resting on the side of her face. She tilted towards it and smiled, enjoying the warmth of his hand against her skin.

"Are…are you dying?" he asked quietly.

Molly laughed softly and turned back to face up, opening her eyes once more.

"No, Sherlock," she said, turning to him again, "I'm not."

Before he could disagree with her, they were interrupted by the loud whirring noise of a helicopter. Sherlock looked up in shock, as the spinning propeller of a helicopter rose into view. When it come hovering above them, a rope ladder unfolded as one uniformed man after another came down from the helicopter.

"Mr Holmes, Dr Hooper," said one of the officers.  
"What…is going on?" Sherlock asked, raising his voice above the din surrounding them.  
"Sorry, Mr Holmes, we need to get Dr Hooper out first, could you please stay where you are? Another medical officer will attend to your injury."  
"Of…of course…" the detective said as he watched, in amazement, Molly being fastened to a contraption which hoisted her swiftly up into the helicopter.

Sherlock was approached suddenly by two other officers who had set up a stretcher.

"We'll be putting you up here at Bart's, Sir," said the officer, "Dr Hooper needs special attention, so she's been taken away."  
"No, but I need to—"  
"Calm down, sir, you're in shock and I'm going to give you something to help you sleep…"  
"No! I don't want any of this non—"

In his distress, Sherlock had not noticed the needle up his arm. In a matter of seconds, drowsiness overcame him, sending him to sleep. The officers adjusted his limp body on the stretcher and brought him into the hospital. 

* * *

The last person he had expected to see, was the very face that greeted him. Sherlock blinked and sat up carefully, remembering the awful pain in his knee.

"Congratulations on your new kneecap," said Molly, smiling at him as she rearranged the flowers in the vase by his hospital bed.

Again, Sherlock was rendered speechless at the presence of the pathologist.

"In case you're wondering, these are from Scotland Yard."  
"How lovely," he said, wincing once more as he tried to bend his injured leg.  
"Don't be silly," she said quietly, "You'll need some proper physio to get your leg working properly again. Don't try anything daft, please."

He listened and kept his leg ramrod straight. Smiling, Molly did not return to her seat by his bed. Instead, she came and sat right beside him, facing him.

"Are you—"  
"I'm fine,"

They paused to smile at the collision of their words.

"Care to tell me how you're…fine?" he asked.  
"I've been seeing your brother…" she said.

Sherlock's eyes opened wide. When Molly realised what she had said, she chuckled and shook her head.

"No, I meant…" she said, taking a deep breath, "Your brother and I were in on this."  
"Carry on…" he said, with one eyebrow raised.  
"You and your brother had been working very closely."  
"Yes…"  
"But he was afraid you'd be stubborn and run off to close the case instead of sticking to plan." she said, staring hard at him, "And he was right."  
"Is he ever wrong?" Sherlock conceded, but not without rolling his eyes.  
"So, I was his backup."  
"I'm going to kill him," Sherlock muttered.  
"Don't be silly. It was my idea." she said.  
"And he let you go with it?" Sherlock asked sternly.  
"Yes," Molly answered resolutely. "It was only logical."  
"I'm definitely going to kill him."  
"No, I forbid it."

Sherlock sighed and tilted his head back, resting against the hospital pillows.

"I'm jealous." he said.  
"Of what?" Molly asked, with a laugh.  
"That he let you try his top secret Kevlar suits."  
"Well, he had to. It was the only way this was going to work…"  
"Yes. But still. Jealous." he said with a smirk.  
"You're such a baby, Sherlock." Molly remarked with a smirk of her own.

All of a sudden, Sherlock reached over to grab her hand. It shocked her at first, but she relaxed and reciprocated, turning her palm up and wrapping her fingers gently around his wrist.

"I am also jealous…" he whispered, "That you spent so much time with my brother."  
"Please," Molly said, "You jest."

Sherlock laughed quietly and drummed his fingers gently over her delicate wrist.

"Did you both have coffee?" he asked, turning to her.  
"Yes." Molly answered eyeing him curiously.  
"And dinner?"  
"Y-es. Many, in fact." Molly said.  
"Hmm, many." Sherlock said, returning to stare at the ceiling.

They sat there in silence, but not once did he let go of her hand. Molly did not mind in the least and smiled to herself.

"Molly," He turned to her again, suddenly.  
"Hmm?"  
"When I'm better…" he said, lowering his eyes to look at their hands.  
"Yes?"  
"We should have coffee."  
"O-kay…" she replied, amused.  
"And dinner."  
"Right."  
"And drinks, I know this great bar."  
"Sherlock, wha—"  
"Dessert too. Do you enjoy dessert? I know a splendid patisserie just round the corner from—"

Molly laughed before leaning over to plant a kiss on his forehead, stopping his endless stream of chatter.

"We'll start with getting better, shall we?" she said, gazing warmly at him.

He smiled in return, albeit a little bashfully.

"Your first physio session starts tomorrow afternoon," she said, getting up from his bed and reaching for her bag, "Three o'clock, downstairs. I checked with the nurses."  
"Right." he said with sigh, reminded of his temporary loss of mobility  
"I'll be there," Molly whispered gently, reaching to touch his hand again.  
"You will?" he remarked, taking her hand once more.  
"I always am, am I not?" she asked smiling cheekily at him.

The detective could not help but smile once more, as brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it gratefully.

"Yes, Molly Hooper," he remarked gently, "You always are."

**END**


End file.
